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by Georgia Douglas Johnson

The faint lose faith
When in the tomb their all is laid,
And there returns
No echoing of weal or woe.
The strong hope on,
They see the clods close over head,
The grass grow green,
No word is said,
And yet—
A little world within the world
Are we,
Daily our hearts' high yearnings fade,
Are buried!
New ones are made,—
Are crucified!
And yet

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